


This Affliction We Cherish

by Lamplighter1623



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Adult Stiles, Alternate Universe, Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Lifeswap, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Survivor Guilt, Teen Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamplighter1623/pseuds/Lamplighter1623
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sterek AU where the fire claims Stiles' family instead of Derek's. When Stiles returns to Beacon Hills years later as a favor to Allison he finds himself hunted by someone from his past, a boy he remembers quite differently than this young man with hunger in his hazel eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _"The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal -- every other affliction to forget: but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open -- this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude." -Washington Irving_

It had been eight years since Stiles had set foot in Beacon Hills. Brown eyes once warmed by life and laughter swept the street, now hard and calculating as he surveyed his old neighborhood. It looked almost exactly the same as Stiles remembered it. The trees were taller, the house on the corner had a new fence, but otherwise it was the same with the exception of one lot.

Stiles’ eyes settled once more on the house in front of him. His motorcycle clicked under him, cooling from the long ride as he studied the building. Painted a pale blue with little white shutters it was the perfect example of small-town American living. A wide porch complete with flower boxes and a swing greeted visitors at the end of a little cobblestone walkway. He was almost offended by how normal it looked. 

Faces peeked from behind curtains as he kicked his bike to life and roared down the quiet suburban street, headed further into town. The ride took him past his old high school, where the lacrosse team was out practicing on the fields. The sheriff’s office had updated cruisers in the parking lot but otherwise looked the same as he remembered it. Stiles took a detour to avoid riding past the hospital before finally pulling into the lot at the old motel off main street. The woman behind the desk didn’t recognize him or his name, a small blessing, and Stiles took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. 

Room 307 was small but it was on the corner of the building and overlooked the parking lot so Stiles could check periodically on his bike, a habit he’d picked up living in a large city for so many years. He threw his helmet halfheartedly at the bed and shed his brown leather jacket, draping it over the chair by the window on his way into the bathroom where he stripped out of the rest of his road-dirtied clothes.

He’d only been in town for an hour and it was already messing with his head. The anger that seethed inside his chest at the cute little house sitting where his childhood home had been was unfair, he knew. There was no way the city was going to leave an empty lot in the middle of such a nice, family-friendly neighborhood. He’d surrendered the land to them anyway, he had no claim to it anymore. 

Still, it rankled him knowing that someone else’s kids were probably climbing his favorite tree, another family was happily celebrating holidays where eight years ago his family had-

Stiles ducked into the shower before the water was warm, hissing as it hit his skin, hoping the cold would calm the heat building inside him. He didn’t want to be here. He’d never wanted to set foot in this town again, but when Allison had called him in person to beg for his help, he hadn’t been able to ignore her. There were a lot of things in Stiles’ life that he couldn’t change or control but this, helping Allison in her time of need, this was something he could do. It was the least he could do. 

Stiles’ cell was ringing when he finally dragged himself out of the shower forty minutes later. He let it ring as he dried his hair and then tied the wet towel around his waist. The phone beeped a few times, a small LED flashing to inform him he had new voicemail. The tiny fridge next to the desk only had three tiny bottles of booze in it and Stiles quickly downed all three without even reading the labels before he grabbed his phone and fell backwards onto the bed. 

_2 Missed Calls - Allison_

Stiles didn’t even bother to listen to the voicemail, deleting it as soon as it started to get rid of the annoying icon on the top of his screen before calling Allison back.

“Stiles? Are you in town now?” Stiles frowned at her voice, a lilt of laughter and a playfulness that she had never seemed to lose in spite of everything. She still sounded seventeen, full of hope and promise. 

“Yeah.” He coughed, rubbing a hand in his damp hair. 

“Where are you?”

“Got a room off Main.”

“Stiles! I told you to come stay with us! It’s not a problem, really, we have plenty of room!” She scolded him. Stiles took a deep steadying breath, shoving away the annoyance that was scratching at the back of his skull as she berated him. 

“I’m good here. When did you want to meet?” 

“It’s getting kind of late, is tomorrow okay? We can grab lunch or something.” 

“Sure, just text me a time and I’ll meet you.”

“Alright. I’m so glad you’re back Stiles, I really am. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, bye.” Stiles hung up and threw the phone on the floor, staring at the large water stain on the ceiling above him. He wasn’t _back_. The sounds of the street drifted up to him through the open hotel window as he mulled over how awkward it was going to be to have lunch with Allison tomorrow. He must have been more tired than he realized because he didn’t even notice when he started to drift off.

The hotel room was hot. Really hot. _Too_ hot. His father was screaming at him to get out, his mother was crying, Scott was just standing at the foot of the bed as his clothes burned away. Melissa’s hair was already half gone, charred along with most of her face. Everything was burning and Stiles just laid there and watched. Scott’s eyes bore into him, accusing. “You should have been there.” His best friend growled as he was engulfed in the flames that screamed with his mother’s voice.

Stiles startled awake, chest heaving and heart slamming against his ribs painfully. 

“Fuck.” He swore under his breath, pulling his hands over his hair and rubbing his face. He pressed fists into his eyes until pinpricks of color exploded behind his eyelids

His phone buzzed quietly a few minutes later, but Stiles ignored it, rolling off the bed to pick his dusty jeans off the floor of the bathroom and pulling them on. He dug a clean shirt out of the bottom of his backpack and grabbed his leather jacket with enough force to knock the chair it was hanging on to the ground. His door slammed loudly behind him, but Stiles was already ducking into the stairwell before the disapproving maid at the other end of the hall could glare at him. 

The bar was only a couple blocks away so Stiles decided not to take his bike. He wasn’t planning on being able to ride it back anyway. He was twenty-five years old now, with a day and half’s worth of scruff on his jaw and hair that hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in months. No one in this town had seen him in eight years so he didn’t worry too much about being recognized as he strode through the door and straight to the bar. The bartender was young and blonde, with a chest far too full for the tiny white shirt she had squeezed into. Her eyes traveled over him appreciatively and her smile was blinding as she threw a square paper napkin down in front of him. “What can I get you?”

“Give me a shot of anything that burns and a bottle of your shittiest beer.” Stiles said, swinging a long leg over the red leather stool and leaning his elbows on the sticky bar. The girl’s smile faltered when Stiles blatantly ignored the looks she shot him as she leaned suggestively in front of him to pour his drink. He downed the whiskey in one long drag and waved impatiently for his beer. When the cold bottle was pressed into his waiting hand Stiles slapped a hundred dollar bill on the counter. “Surprise me until this is gone.” He said, meeting her eyes for the first time. She stared at him, startled, but nodded and poured him another shot. 

An hour later Stiles was back on the street feeling much better about… everything. He stretched, feeling his shoulders and back pop, still not quite loosened up from the day-long ride he’d taken to get here. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the inner pocket of his jacket and lit one, a habit he only indulged in while drinking. There was just something about a good buzz and the burn of a cigarette, something that helped him feel alive. The irony of it was not lost on him as he started walking back toward the hotel. It wasn’t a long walk, but when he’d reached the building something carried him right past it. 

He walked along the streets he’d memorized at a young age from the front seat of his father’s patrol car. The streets he’d raced down with Scott on their bikes, then driven together in his old jeep. Even after all this time, Stiles knew this town. It wasn’t home, not anymore, but every corner had a memory, every building a story he could tell. He stumbled up a small hill as the sun was setting behind him, and was suddenly overlooking the lacrosse field. 

The team was gone, the field empty, so Stiles did what any grown man would do. He took three drunken tries to climb over the chain-link fence and then threw up behind the bleachers. 

“Okay, maybe I might have overdone it a bit.” He mumbled to himself as he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, and made his way onto the field. Even though he had numbed himself quite effectively with a hundred dollars worth of shots and shitty beer, something still settled uncomfortably in Stiles’ chest when he looked around the field. He could almost hear the screaming from the stands, feel the jostling of his team mates on the sidelines. He could easily picture Scott running around on the field. Danny, Isaac, and Jackson too. Even Coach Finstock screaming insults at them was a memory that hooked behind his heart and made his throat tighten. 

“Hey!” A voice called from behind him. Stiles turned too fast and the world tilted dangerously, threatening to dump him off.

“Oh, fuck.” He moaned, bracing his hands on his knees to avoid falling over. Deep, even breaths re-leveled the horizon and he looked toward the voice again. It was a man, no, a teenager, with a gym bag thrown over one shoulder and a lacrosse stick in his hand.

“What are you doing?” The teen asked as he drew near. Stiles looked the boy over and had a moment of pure hatred for him. Stiles in high school had been awkward and clumsy, with limbs too long for his body, pale skin, and a propensity for making everyone in every social situation feel at least a little uncomfortable. Now in his mid-twenties things had evened out, with long, lean muscle replacing baby fat and filling him out, his skin was roughened by years on the road. He was a completely different Stiles now, harder, darker. This kid, whoever he was, was the exact opposite of teenaged Stiles. He was tall and muscular, all tanned skin and handsome face. He moved with a grace that Stiles still didn’t possess and everything about him was pissing Stiles off. “Are you alright?” Concern flashed over the boy’s face and Stiles tried to stand up straight to tell this annoying asshole off when the ground shifted under him again and he nearly fell to his knees. The teenager dropped his bag and rushed forward, catching Stiles easily and ducking under his arm. “Man, you smell like a brewery.” He coughed when Stiles leaned on him, waiting for the trees and buildings to stop spinning. “Where do you live?”

“Hotel.” Stiles managed, swallowing thickly as his stomach rolled in protest. 

“Shit, alright, let’s go.” The teen half-dragged him off the field and around the side of the school, dumping him none-too-gently in the passenger seat of a car far too expensive for a highschooler. “Don’t puke in my car.” Stiles flashed a thumbs up and slumped against the door when it slammed closed. Apparently the car had teleportation powers, because two seconds later he almost fell out when it was pulled open again. 

“What the fuck.” He grumbled, bracing himself against the side of the car as he tried to stand. 

“We’re at the hotel. Which room is yours?”

“307.” Stiles rested his cheek against the cool black paint on the roof of the car, closing his eyes with a sigh. 

“Aright, come on.” The teen ducked under his arm again, ignoring his protesting groan, and dragged him up three flights of stairs. Stiles barely registered the hand in his pants as the boy searched his pockets for the key, didn’t even notice when he was dumped on the bed and his boots were pulled off. He whined when the sleeves of his jacket were tugged, sitting up and letting the boy pull the leather garment from his shoulders. He was left, swaying slightly, at the foot of the bed until a cold glass of water was pressed into his hand. He took a long draw, finally looking up at the teen. His gaze slid up the boy’s impressive height slowly, then snagged on intense hazel eyes. There was something familiar about those eyes, but he couldn’t place them. A memory like smoke in his mind, a name on the tip of his tongue. A boy, all knees and elbows and funny buck teeth that he’d known many years ago had eyes like that. Something in his mind clicked over and he smiled. 

“Derek.”

Stiles passed out then, the rest of his water splashing onto the floor as he slumped to his side on the bed. He didn’t see the shock flash through those hazel eyes, didn’t feel the rough hands that turned his face more fully toward the light, didn’t hear the sharp intake of breath as the teen looked through the stubble on his chin and the years on his face and whispered quietly to himself, 

“Stiles?”

###

Stiles woke with a groan, head pounding and mouth dry. Rolling onto his side was a chore, but he was rewarded with the sight of a glass of water and some aspirin on the little table next to his bed. He swallowed the pills gladly, sitting slumped on the side of the bed, his head in his hands. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Squinting against the morning sunshine streaming through the thin curtains Stiles surveyed the room. It looked fine, nothing was broken, his jacket was folded neatly on the chair by the desk, his boots sitting side by side underneath. Stiles frowned at that, eyeing his keys and wallet sitting on the desk next to a piece of paper he didn’t remember being there last night. 

In fact, Stiles didn’t remember much of anything from last night, he realized with another groan as he pulled himself shakily to his feet. He had been at the bar and had started walking back to the hotel and then… he had a brief flash of the lacrosse field and a sleek black car that could teleport but other than that he had no idea how he had gotten home. Obviously someone had found him somewhere, because never in his life had Stiles so neatly folded his clothing, or lined up his shoes in a place that wasn’t directly in the middle of a major walkway.

The piece of paper turned out to be a note, sprawled in long, careless cursive on regular notebook paper. 

_Be more careful, you drunk. You might be found by a creep next time. -Derek_

“Who the fuck is Derek?” Stiles yawned, scratching at his beard and wandering into the bathroom where he promptly stubbed his toe on the toilet. “Son of a bitch!” He growled, leaning against the sink and inspecting his damaged foot. “Perfect. Good morning, Stiles.” Shaking his head Stiles started the shower and turned to the sink, digging his razor out of his toiletries bag and shaving with quick, efficient movements before ducking under the hot water, letting out a sigh of relief as the tension in his shoulders released. After his shower Stiles checked his phone to find three text messages waiting for him from Allison. 

4:07 pm: _Hey Stiles, I really am glad you’re back in town. We both are. Excited to see you tomorrow. Do you have any preferences for lunch?_

7:43 pm: _I guess not. How about we meet at that little café on 4th, next to the bank? Around 12?_

9:23 am: _Are you alright? Please let me know if you can make it at noon, you know how difficult it is for us to get around and I don’t want to go all the way into town if you can’t make it. Text me back please._

Stiles felt a twinge of guilt as he looked at the clock on the top of his phone’s screen. It was already 10:30. He quickly typed out his response to Allison and started digging in his bag for clean clothes. 

10:32 am: _Hey, sorry Al I just woke up. Yes, I can meet you at the café on 4th at noon. See you there._

A clean pair of jeans and one of his old button-ups were the nicest clothes he had thought to pack. The old shirt pulled tight across his much broader shoulders and he had to roll the sleeves up because they were too short for his arms now, but it looked passable when he checked the mirror, running a hand over his clean-shaven face with a chuckle. If he cut his hair, slung a backpack over his shoulder, and erased a few of the lines around his eyes he could almost pass for the Stiles Allison probably remembered. 

Noon found Stiles sitting out on the café’s little patio, boots propped up on the chair in front of him as he leaned back with eyes closed and soaked in the sunshine. He had forgotten the peacefulness of small towns. It was so quiet here, with birds singing and people greeting friends happily as they passed. There were no sirens, nobody was screaming obscenities at crying children that echoed between tall buildings. Maybe Stiles should move to a smaller city, find himself a nice little house on the edge of town. 

“Stiles?” A voice called to him from the sidewalk and he turned his head, cracking one eye open to squint in the sunshine at Allison. She looked as amazing as ever in a breezy, pale yellow sundress with her waist-length hair pulled up in a high ponytail. The legs of his chair clicked flat onto the pavement as he pulled his feet down and planted them on the ground, heaving himself up and returning her smile, though not quite as brilliantly. 

“Hey, Allison.” She ran into his arms and squeezed him tightly as he felt a knot that he hadn’t even realized was there loosen in his chest. 

“Oh God, you have no idea how good it is to see you.” She breathed against his shoulder and his arms tightened around her back. When she pulled away gently he let her go, looking into her eyes with a soft fondness he didn’t know he still possessed. Her punch caught him by surprise and had him clutching his bicep even as he laughed. “Eight years is too damn long, Stilinski. Don’t you ever make me wait that long again!” She scolded him, hand on her hip and head held high.

“Yes, ma’am.” Stiles chuckled, giving her a mock salute. Movement over Allison’s shoulder caught Stiles’ eye and all at once the light-hearted smiles were gone. Allison’s eyes were knowing and kind as she stepped out of the way. Eight years ago Stiles’ life had been changed forever, torn apart by grief and pain and guilt. Nothing could have pulled him out of that darkness. They'd carried Scott alive from the ruins of the house, but they all knew he wasn't going to make it. Three days was all Stiles could take before he'd left town. He regretted that now, but at the time he hadn't been able to cope. When Allison had called him he had hung up on her, read all the text messages she’d sent him but never responded. Now he was face to face with the thing he had feared and he didn’t know what he should be doing with his hands. 

She had Scott’s eyes.

“Hi, I’m Melissa.” the little girl said shyly, extending a tiny hand to Stiles. He shook it numbly. 

“Stiles.”

“I know who you are. You're my daddy’s brother. There are pictures of you in our house.” Stiles’ bark of laughter was pain-filled and took them both by surprise and he coughed into his fist awkwardly, throat tight, then sank to one knee until he was eye-level with her. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Melissa.” Stiles hoped his smile was genuine, and it must have been because she grinned back at him easily, lopsided and so very like her father that Stiles couldn’t help gathering her into his arms and hugging her tightly.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles, Allison, and Melissa, (“Call me Mel!”), end up at the cemetery. It’s a beautiful piece of land just outside of town. The sunshine slants through the flowering trees and catches on dust and silver spider webs. It’s the first time Stiles has been here, and Allison shows him the way to Scott’s grave. There’s an old weeping willow nearby, with a memorial bench resting in its shade. They sit, and Mel bounds energetically to her father’s grave, a bouquet of daisies in her hands. She rests her back against the headstone and starts talking quietly, picking apart the daisies and stringing them into a chain. Stiles takes a moment to let the sharp pain in his chest wash over him as he watches her.

“I don’t know what to do, Stiles. She’s getting stronger. We had to stop going out, I’m afraid someone will notice.” Allison was twisting the hem of her dress in anxious knots, leg bouncing nervously as they sat on the bench.

“Did you take her to Doctor Deaton?” He asked, tearing his eyes from Mel and looking instead up into the branches of the huge tree they were under. It reminded him of the all the times he and Scott had gone exploring in the woods when they were kids. Stiles had goaded Scott into climbing a tree just like this in the fifth grade, and gotten grounded for a month when Scott fell out and broke his arm.

“Yes. He said he’d never heard of anything like it. He told me that there was nothing he could do, and that my best option was to contact Talia Hale.” Stiles glanced at her quickly, something tugging at the edge of his memory. 

“Talia Hale? The Hales are still in town?” 

Allison nodded and sighed heavily, and Stiles noticed for the first time the deep worry lines around her eyes. “I couldn’t do it. They know who I am and what my family does. I didn’t think they’d listen to me.”

“They would listen, Allison. They’d have to. Even when you were a hunter you weren’t like the others. You weren’t like the ones who…” Stiles trailed off, his eyes sliding to Mel again. 

“It’s okay, she knows what happened to him.” Allison reassured him tiredly. “Besides, Stiles, we don’t know for sure it was hunters who set the fire. The police report said it was an electrical failure.” Stiles scoffed at her.

“Electrical failure doesn’t set up wards to bar the doors and windows. It wasn’t a coincidence that your grandfather’s ‘acquaintances’,” Stiles spit the word out like it was bitter poison on his tongue, “just happened to be passing through and left the morning after my entire family burned alive.” Allison’s long, delicate fingers smoothed over his where they were clenched in a white-knuckled fist on his knee. 

“Not your _entire_ family, Stiles.” Allison said softly. Melissa had stopped fiddling with the flowers at his words and was watching him intently. Stiles forcibly relaxed his death grip and gave her a small smile and a nod. She watched him for a beat more then returned to her task. 

“I’m sorry, Allison. I should have been here. I shouldn’t have left.” Stiles turned his hand up to catch hers, gently squeezing her fingers. She smiled gently, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. 

“It’s alright, Stiles. It’s what you needed. We almost left too, but I didn’t want to take her away from him.” Allison’s cheerful mask had disappeared completely and the years and heartache were plain on her face for the first time as she watched her daughter. “I’m terrified what they would do to her, if they knew.” She said under her breath, and Stiles wasn‘t sure if she was speaking to the Hales, or her grandfather‘s hunting buddies. 

“You can’t hide her forever, Al. The Hales will find out eventually, and I think it would be wiser if you were the one to approach them first.” Stiles squeezed her hand again and she nodded, but remained silent. Stiles promised Allison they would figure it out, and if worse came to worst, they could always come live with him. Allison hugged him tightly and mumbled tearful thanks into his shoulder. Mel waved them over, Scott’s crooked grin bright on her face. She had strung a ring of daisies around her father’s headstone, leaving two flowers untouched on the grass. 

“What are these ones for?” Stiles asked her, scooping up the leftovers. 

“I didn’t bring enough to make a chain for your daddy.” Mel answered quietly, and Stiles blinked at her. He didn’t even know where his father was buried. Allison linked her arm with his at the same time Mel gripped his hand. 

“Come on, we’ll show you.” Allison and Mel lead Stiles through the graves silently until they moved into a section where the gravestones changed. Servicemen, Stiles noted. Soldiers, firefighters, policemen. They passed a name Stiles recognized, a young deputy who had worked with his father. Stiles remembered his warm eyes and hearty laugh, his father commenting affectionately that a boy that kind-hearted should never be required to carry a firearm. 

The girls stopped, and Stiles didn’t want to look. If he didn’t look he didn’t have to acknowledge the proof that his parents were in the ground. He looked around, at all the tiny American flags, the memorial statues, the nearby Red Maple so like the one that had grown in their backyard. 

The headstone was simple and understated, and Stiles was glad. His father would have scoffed at something over-the-top honoring his life. It’s a flat rectangular stone with the Stilinski name carved boldly at the top, his father and mother’s names underneath, and their dates. It’s perfect. 

“Did you…” Stiles is a little embarrassed at how small his voice is, barely squeezing through the tightness in his throat. Allison squeezes his arm and then releases him, pulling Mel with her as she steps back to give him space. 

“My father helped me pay for it. I knew you wouldn’t have wanted something gaudy.” She answers him quietly. Stiles’ eyes settle on a small pot of red poppies next to the stone and he sinks to his knees. 

“These were my mother’s favorite.” He says to himself more than anyone else, but Mel answers him anyway.

“I know, Mom told me. We bring them every spring.” 

Stiles lets his fingers brush gently over the blooms before he places his hand on the stone. It grounds him, the cool, damp granite. The pounding in his head eases, the vice around his heart loosens. Something incomplete slides into place and Stiles feels more whole than he has in the eight years since he’d left. He lays the two daisies across the stone and runs his fingertips across his parent’s names once, then stands and shakes himself. 

“Okay, let’s get out of here.” He coughs, and the trio leaves the cemetery.

***

Stiles doesn’t remember drinking that much, it shouldn’t be so difficult to cross the bar without running into every table between him and the bathroom. Annoyed patrons grumble at him as he passes, knocking drinks over and stepping on toes, but he is concentrating too hard on not face-planting to respond. He reaches the door to the restroom with a great sense of relief only to find it locked. ‘Closed for cleaning’ the sign says. Stiles curses and glances briefly toward the women’s door, but if the dangerous glare the scary woman who’d just exited was any indication, it was probably in his best interest not to try his luck. With a long-suffering sigh he makes the perilous journey back across the bar. This time the people at the tables are smart enough to get a hand on their drinks and tuck their feet away as he passes. 

“Is there another bathroom in this joint?” He asks the heavy-set bartender, and the man just shakes his head at him. “Fine, pour me another shot.” 

“Sorry, man, I’m cutting you off.” The man says, returning Stiles’ gaping disbelief with an indifferent shrug. 

“I haven’t even been here that long!” Stiles protests, and the bartender throws a thumb over his shoulder at the clock behind the bar. 

“You’ve been here for over four hours. Go home and sleep it off.” 

Stiles curses under his breath and falls angrily out the front door into unexpected darkness. The streetlights were buzzing and all the other shops on the street were closed. The timeline made no sense in Stiles’ fuzzy head, but he couldn’t deny that it had been late afternoon when he’d strolled into the bar, and now it was night time.

“I thought you were never going to come out of there.” A voice from behind him sets him on edge and he turns, suddenly and painfully aware of how dull his reflexes are. 

“Who the fuck are you?” He slurs at the blurry outline of a man leaning against the brick wall of the bar. Stiles is sure that if the stranger would just stop spinning he’d be able to recognize him.

“Seriously? It’s only been twenty-four hours since the last time you saw me.” The spinning man says as he pushes away from the wall and steps closer. Stiles doesn’t see the arm extending, but he feels the hand close on his shoulder and suddenly the spinning, blurry man is on his back on the pavement. Stiles feels sick as he looks down at the man, trying to remember when exactly he threw him. 

“Impressive. Especially for someone who can barely stand.” The man says, blinking up at Stiles with an amused look on his attractive teenage face. 

“You look familiar.” Stiles mumbles, trying to place the strong, stubbled jaw, hazel eyes, and excessive eyebrows. 

“I’d better. I’ve known you for almost my entire life.” The teen says as he slides fluidly from the ground to his feet.

“No one knows me anymore.” Stiles grumbles, turning his back on the strange teen and starting back toward his hotel.

“You’re Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski’s son. You left town eight years ago after the fire but before that you were a goofy teen with a buzz cut and a blue jeep that always smelled like burning oil. I used to watch you at the lacrosse games. When we were young we used to run into each other in the woods, my sister liked to push you into the mud and your friend Scott liked to put bugs in my hair.” The teen rambled, easily matching Stiles’ long, unsteady strides. 

“That’s not who I am.” Stiles ground out, shoulders tense and anger building.

“Yeah, I can see that. I’m not the same either, you know.” Stiles felt the rush of breath across his face before he’d even realized that he’d slammed the kid against the nearest wall, his forearm pressing against the teen’s throat. 

“Why are you following me?” He snarled in the teens face. Surprise was replaced by amusement in those hazel eyes, which only served to piss Stiles off even more. The teen raised his hands in surrender in the face of Stiles’ drunken anger. 

“Because I’m pretty sure you’re trying to get back to your hotel, which is in the opposite direction.” Stiles blinked at the teen, processing his words, before his eyes followed his outstretched finger, pointing down the street back the way they’d come. Shit, he was right.

Stiles dropped his arm and stepped back, watching the teen dust himself off. “Who are you?”

“You really don’t remember me?” The teen looked sad for a moment, searching Stiles’ face. 

“Drunk, remember?” Stiles pointed at himself and swayed uncertainly for good measure, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. 

“I’m Derek Hale.” 

The whole street seemed to freeze as those words echoed around in Stiles’ suddenly clear head. Derek Hale. Images of a knock-kneed kid with ridiculous rabbit teeth and a mop of dark hair chasing after him and Scott in the woods suddenly flooded his memory. He tried to see that boy in the tall, muscular teen standing in front of him and couldn’t do it. There was no way. He wouldn’t have believed it if it weren’t for those eyes, such a strange hazel-green shade that Stiles had always found disarming. 

“Derek.” The grin on Derek’s face when Stiles said his name was blinding, and it warmed Stiles in a way all the alcohol in world never had. 

“You remember me now?” Stiles nodded distractedly, trying to figure out why his brain was screaming at him that he was missing something important. 

“Derek Hale. Derek.” He chewed on the name, trying to place the odd sense of urgency he was feeling. What was so important about Derek- “Wait. Derek _Hale_?”

“That’s what I said.” Derek stared at him like he’d gone mad, and flexing muscles under his palm revealed that Stiles had gripped his arm tightly in his shock. 

“You’re a wolf! You have to take me to see your mother.” 

“I- what?” 

“Now, Derek!”

The walk to Derek’s car is filled with questions from the teen that Stiles doesn’t bother to answer. How does he know about Derek being a wolf? How does he know Derek’s mother? Why did he need to see her? The ride to the Hale house is silent as Derek glowers moodily at being ignored and Stiles tries desperately to rehearse what to say to Talia Hale that won’t get himself or Mel and Allison killed. When Derek turns the black Camaro off the main road onto a long, dirt driveway, Stiles isn’t even remotely prepared. He suddenly feels 16 again and for one long, gut wrenching moment, he thinks that he might fall headfirst into a panic attack. A low, constant rumble from the seat next to him penetrates the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears. His gaze slides to Derek, who is growling softly in time with his deep, even breathing. Stiles watches the teen’s chest rise and fall rhythmically, and finds himself following along. He times his breathing with Derek’s, listens to the soft, rumbling growl that echoes from the teen, and feels himself calm. Derek ignores Stiles’ mumbled thanks, doesn’t even acknowledge that he’d done anything worth thanking, but as soon as Stiles’ heartbeat slows to a normal pace the growling stops and he shifts into a more natural, slouched position which doesn’t allow Stiles to see the rise and fall of his chest. 

The Hale house was a massive, gorgeous old building, appearing unexpectedly in front of them, as much a part of the surrounding forest as the trees it was hidden behind. Stiles took one last steadying breath, and climbed out of Derek’s car, realizing too late that it probably wasn’t the best idea to arrive at a house full of werewolves without his own mode of transport home.

Talia Hale was standing on the wide front porch, waiting for them. Just behind her stood a girl around Stiles’ age. She was beautiful in a terrifying way, with long, dark hair and glowing yellow eyes that tracked his every move. Stiles met her glare with indifference as he stopped in front of the pack Alpha. His panic subsided as he built up his walls again, blocking out the things that were making him weak. Thoughts of Scott and his parents, worry about Allison and Mel, fear of the wolves in front of him. He rolled his shoulders and felt it all slide away as he settled back into himself.

“Who is your friend, Derek?” Talia’s voice was soft, but so full of power that it was actually more intimidating than if she had screamed at them. 

“Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski’s son.” Derek answered her with his head down, slinking to her side slowly looking for all the world like a submissive puppy. His mother’s eyes stayed on Stiles but her clawed hand ran down her son’s arm as he passed and joined his sister. Stiles inclined his head to Talia, a deliberate balance between showing respect and not debasing himself completely before her. He wanted her to know that he understood her power, but he was not necessarily going to bow down to it. She returned his gesture with a lazy blink of Alpha-red eyes. 

“How can I help you Mr. Stilinski?” 

“I apologize for my intrusion at such a late hour.” Stiles began, his eyes sweeping over the house and surrounding trees quickly. “I have something of immediate importance to discuss with the Alpha of Beacon Hills.” 

“He’s a hunter!” The beautiful girl growled from behind Talia, her claws and fangs lengthening. 

“Be quiet, Laura.” Talia scolded, and the girl immediately shrank back, scowling. Talia regarded Stiles for a long moment before she spoke again. “Are you a hunter, Mr. Stilinski?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You hold yourself like a hunter.”

“I am prepared to defend myself should this conversation not go well.” He admitted, knowing she would smell any deception on him. Lying was not the way to get her on his side. 

“You have knowledge of my family and are prepared to defend yourself against us and you wish for me to believe that you are not a hunter.” Her tone was flat, giving away nothing.

“Yes, ma’am.” 

The tension in the air was like a living thing, vibrating between the wolves and the human, as Talia weighed him with her Alpha gaze and Stiles refused to back down. Laura growled again and Talia turned on her, a sharp snapping of teeth that sent both Laura and Derek down to the boards of the deck. When she turned back to Stiles, her face was human again, but for the glowing red of her eyes. 

“Very well, Mr. Stilinski, what is of such immediate importance?”

“My best friend was Scott McCall.” Stiles said. Might as well get straight to the point, he could tell that Talia wasn’t going to have much patience for him.

“The True Alpha who died in the hunter’s fire.” It wasn’t a question, merely an acknowledgment of her awareness of Scott’s existence. Stiles nodded anyway. 

“Scott was in a relationship with Allison Argent.” 

“The young huntress.”

“When Scott died Allison was pregnant.” Talia’s eyes flashed and Stiles saw her hands flex, as if fighting against her claws. “The child is a wolf.”

“This is unacceptable.” A voice sounded from directly behind Stiles. He somehow managed not to flinch, but knew it was a small victory, as every wolf present would have heard his heart hammering against his ribs. A man rounded him on his left, eyes glowing a startlingly electric blue. 

“Peter, mind your place.” 

“Apologies, sister.” The man inclined his head to the Alpha much as Stiles had. An admission of lesser status but not quite submission. Talia let it slide, though Stiles saw the anger flash momentarily over her features. 

“How old is the child?” Talia asked, descending the steps into the yard and approaching Stiles with a smooth glide reserved for predators stalking prey.

“Seven.”

“Has she begun shifting?”

“She has.” Talia stopped directly in front of Stiles and stared at him. Stiles stared back at her. She was very beautiful, he noted. Her dark hair, high cheekbones, and olive complexion hinted at a bloodline that included something exotic. He couldn’t be sure of the color of her eyes underneath the wolf, but he would bet his first born they were just as striking as Derek’s. 

“What is it you want of me?” She asked him finally, taking a step back, out of his personal space and settling into a more relaxed posture.

“I come to you looking for help. Her mother and I are human. I have knowledge of your world but no practical skills in dealing with a werewolf child. Or any child, for that matter.” Talia didn’t comment on his joke, but she didn’t immediately tear his throat out either, so there’s that. “Doctor Deaton suggested to Allison that she seek you out, but she didn’t think you would entertain her, given her family’s line of work.”

“She was correct.”

“But Melissa is gaining strength and Allison cannot keep her safe forever. I come to you now seeking help for a child in danger.” 

“You think that because I am a mother myself I will overlook her parentage and take her in simply because she is a child?” Talia remains in a relaxed stance, but there is an edge to her voice that Stiles doesn’t miss.

“No. I think that because you are a powerful Alpha and a well-respected elder you will be fair and at least give her a chance before you kill her outright.” 

The man called Peter laughs from somewhere behind Talia and it takes Stiles a moment to locate him, crouched low on the roof of the house.

“He’s got balls, Talia, you have to give him points for that.”

“Indeed he does.” The Alpha agrees. “Very well. I will hear your case on behalf of the girl. Bring her here, tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. Do not bring the huntress.” Talia turns away, a clear dismissal.

“I will bring her mother or I will not bring her at all.” Stiles states loudly. Talia freezes in mid-stride, Laura gasps, Derek whines, and Peter lets out a loud bark of laughter from the rooftop. Talia’s eyes are blazing when she looks over her shoulder at him. Her face is still mostly human, but there is something off, her features slightly elongated as she inhales deeply, nostrils flaring.

“You will not bring a huntress onto my land.” She growls.

“Allison is not a huntress. She hasn’t been for years. She is a mother, nothing more.” Stiles stands his ground, even when Talia suddenly appears inches from his face, all teeth and glowing eyes.

“What makes you think you have any choice in this? I could take the child tonight if I so chose.” She snarled.

“You could try, but Doctor Deaton and I have warded their house. I have many friends outside of Beacon Hills, ma’am. I could easily keep them both away from you forever.”

Talia roars right in his face, and Stiles is sure for a moment that she is going to rip his throat out right here in the middle of the woods. He hopes that Allison is smart enough to realize what happened and get Melissa out of town. He hopes that Talia doesn’t try her luck before Allison gets the chance because he totally did _not_ ward their house. He hopes someone nice finds his bike and takes good care of it. 

“Tomorrow night, seven o’clock. Do not be late.” Talia growls as she stalks away from him. “Derek, take him back to town.” She snarls at her son before disappearing into the shadows of the forest, followed quickly by Laura. Peter slips soundlessly from the roof and lands on the balls of his feet in front of Stiles. Electric blue eyes give him a once over and then the man is clapping Stiles on the shoulder with a grin. 

“Nice job, kid.” Then he is gone, melting into the darkness like his sister. 

Derek is there in an instant, staring at Stiles like he’d never seen anything like him before.

“What?” Stiles sighed, rubbing his hands over his face to try and ease the buzzing tension that had built behind his eyes. 

“I’ve never seen someone stand up to my mother like that and live. Not even Peter speaks to her that way.” Derek said quietly.

“Well, don’t hold your breath, I might not talk to her like that and live for much longer.” Stiles patted Derek on the shoulder and turned back to the car. “You heard your mother. Take me back to town.”

Stiles called Allison on the drive back to Beacon Hills. She was furious that he’d gone to the Hale house alone, but agreed to meet him the next evening to bring Melissa to Talia. By the time the call was over they had arrived at his hotel. He said good night to Derek, thanked him for the ride, and climbed the stairs to his hotel room, collapsing immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s unseasonably cold when Stiles wakes up the next morning, but he can’t bring himself to get up and close the window. There’s a scream clawing at the back of his throat, though he can’t remember why he’d felt the need for screaming. The sounds of sirens in the distance drift on the breeze like ghosts, pushing at the time-yellowed lace curtains as they steal through the open window into his room. The room felt tiny, as if Stiles had woken up just before the walls closed in to crush him, tight and suffocating and dark in spite of the morning sunshine slanting across the bed. He lay on his back breathing evenly, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the pressure at the back of his throat to subside. 

There’s a knock at the door but Stiles ignores it. A few seconds later he hears feet shuffling, then another knock, more insistent this time. It isn’t until the person on the other side of the door tries the handle that Stiles finally gets up, not trusting his voice enough to call out. He yanks the door open just as the third round of knocking begins and finds a surprised looking Derek standing in the hallway with his fist in the air. The teen is appropriately clothed for the chill in the air, but Stiles is severely under dressed for hallway conversation, wearing only his worn-out jeans from the day before, unbuttoned and hanging loosely around his hips. Stiles leans against the doorjamb and looks at the teen expectantly.

“Uh… I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” Derek said lamely. Stiles wonders immediately if Talia sent Derek to check up on him, but there was an openness to Derek’s face, no trace of hidden agenda or threat. Only honest concern, underlined dangerously by an interested flare of nostrils and body-length sweep of hazel eyes. 

_Danger, Will Robinson,_ Stiles thinks as he suddenly feels the need to track down a shirt.

He waves Derek into the room as he turns and stumbles sleepily toward the bathroom. He heard Derek enter the room and close the door, so he motioned lazily at the chair in the corner as he walked past it, then kicked at the bathroom door. It didn’t latch all the way, but Stiles didn’t really care. Derek would be able to hear him pissing from across the street, one flimsy hotel door wasn’t going to make any difference. 

“So, uh, _are_ you alright?” Derek called from the other room. Stiles could hear him pacing on the other side of the door as he let his jeans slip completely off his hips and pool around his ankles. 

“Why wouldn’t I be alright?” Stiles replied, relieved that his voice sounded normal around what remained of the lump in his throat. 

“I don’t know I just thought I smelled-” Derek cut himself off with a cough and Stiles frowned.

“Were you camping outside my door last night?” 

“No!” Derek scoffed, then cleared his throat. “Maybe.”

“Creep.” Stiles flushed the toilet and hiked up his jeans, moving to the sink to wash his hands. The door creaked open behind him and he watched in the mirror as Derek filled the small doorway, shifting awkwardly on the balls of his feet. “Are you sure it’s not because your mother ordered you to keep an eye on me today so I don’t run away?” Derek at least had the decency to look offended.

“I’m sure.” He answered immediately.

“Well, rest easy, little wolf, I am perfectly fine.” Stiles watched with amusement as Derek bristled at the endearment, opening his mouth to speak before snapping it shut audibly. 

“I wanted to warn you. My mother has called others. There will be many wolves at the house tonight, some of them very old, many with grudges against hunters. You cannot act with them the way you acted with my mother. She is interested in you and the girl, but the rest of them will not see any reason to keep you alive once the girl is on the property. Please, Stiles.” At the urgent tone in Derek’s voice Stiles finally turned around, meeting his gaze as he dried his hands. Derek moved forward, crowding into Stiles’ space, a storm of emotion that Stiles didn’t understand swirling in his hazel eyes. “Please, be careful. Be safe.” Looking into Derek’s eyes, so close and pleading with him to listen, Stiles wasn’t sure how to react. He’d spent years on the road, alone and unattached to anyone or anything except his bike. He’d drifted around, remained distant, never stayed anywhere long enough to develop relationships. Being faced with such raw emotion threw him off balance.

“Well, I have no plans for dying today. I haven’t seen the Grand Canyon yet.” He shrugged lamely. Derek didn’t respond, only stood there searching his face for a moment before abruptly turning away. 

“Don’t be late.” The teen called over his shoulder as he left the hotel room, door closing softly behind him. 

“Okay, drama wolf.” Stiles grumbled, slipping once more out of his dirty jeans and turning on the shower as he heard Derek’s Camaro roar to life in the parking lot and speed away. 

**###**

Stiles spent the entire drive to the Hale house reassuring Allison, (“ _This is a horrible idea, Stiles, oh my God._ ”), calming her down, (“ _I’m going in with you I don’t care what Talia Hale says._ ”), scolding her for being crazy, (“ _We should just kill them all and skip town_.”), and finally making a promise that required no conversation, only a lingering look in the rear-view mirror as Stiles made the turn down the gravel driveway and Allison clutched Mel in the backseat. If things went badly tonight, Stiles was to get Mel out and leave Allison behind. He nodded curtly and watched her determined stare slide straight through relief and back into worry as she stroked a hand over her daughter’s hair. 

Stiles, for the most part, remained calm. There was no sense in getting himself all riled up until he had a better idea what they were getting into. He’d made a real conscious effort to stay away from the bar today, he’d even had the maid who came to clean his room take the tiny bottles of booze out of the mini fridge. His mind was clear and his senses sharp, which made it all that much worse when they rounded a bend in the road and came upon the Hale house.

There were twelve cars parked throughout the yard. Derek’s Camaro, which yesterday had been the only vehicle visible on the property, was crowded against the side of the house, boxed in by a massive black Escalade and something fast and foreign with a blinding silver paint job. Many of the cars were high-end sedans, easily capable of carrying five people each. Allison’s car rolled to a stop while Stiles stared, his mind rapidly trying to calculate how many werewolves they were likely to face inside the house, how many he would have to kill if he and Mel had any chance of getting outside, how far they would make it before they were overrun, would he have to kill Derek?

Allison’s hand resting gently on his shoulder calmed his racing thoughts. She met his gaze in the rearview and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then turned to Mel with a slightly strained smile. Stiles’ eye was drawn by movement near the house, his vision fighting the lengthening shadows to identify the figure on the porch. At first he thought it was Derek, but then the car’s headlights glinted off of electric blue instead of gold. Peter Hale slipped from the shadows of the porch and waved at them. Stiles waved back as he stepped out of the car, making sure to leave it unlocked in case they needed to get in quickly.

“Welcome, boys and girls.” Peter sing-songed as he shook Stiles’ hand, eyes sliding not-so-discreetly over his shoulder to watch Mel climb out of the car. Stiles saw Peter’s nostrils flare and made a point of stepping into his line of sight. Peter’s gaze refocused onto Stiles’ face and he raised his hands in defense, a placating smile on his face. “Sorry, just curious. Follow me.” 

The trio trailed behind Peter as he led them through the maze of cars. Stiles slipped his phone from his pocket and flashed the screen at Allison, dialing her number discreetly and waiting until the call connected before slipping the phone back in his pocket. Beside him, Allison did the same. She may not be allowed in the house, but being able to hear that her daughter is safe _might_ keep her from barging in anyway. 

“Terribly sorry, but this is as far as you go, Huntress.” Peter hummed unpleasantly as they climbed the steps to the porch. There was a chair sitting next to the door that Stiles didn’t remember from the day before. It was small, and metal, rusted around edge of the seat. One of the legs was bent slightly in the middle. It was probably the most uncomfortable-looking chair Stiles had ever seen, set out especially for Allison.

“Fine.” Allison smiled at Peter with venom in her eyes, then crouched down by Mel, gripping her little hands tightly. “You stay with Stiles, okay Pup?” Mel nodded and Allison hugged her. “I’ll be right here when you finish. Listen to Stiles, I’ll see you soon.” 

Peter led Stiles and Mel into the house, leaving Allison alone in the growing darkness outside. Well-worn floorboards creaked ominously beneath Stiles’ boots as they moved through a maze of dim hallways until Peter stopped in front of a pair of heavy French doors. Stiles glanced down at Mel as she threaded her small fingers through his. 

“Ready?” He whispered to her. She took a steadying breath, squared her little shoulders, and nodded. Peter threw open the doors and swept his arms wide with a flourish, as if he were some kind of performer leading curious customers into a sideshow tent at a circus. Stiles just rolled his eyes as they passed, and entered the room beyond. 

It was huge, a den of some sort, though sharp brown eyes swept the space less for décor and more to add up the large number of wolves present within its space. Twenty-four. Most of the wolves were hanging back against the walls, eyes beta-gold and teeth bared, but silent. Derek was there too, leaning against the far wall and trying to look bored, but Stiles saw the tension in his arms where they were crossed tightly across his chest. 

Standing in the middle of the room in an intimidating half-circle stood nine of the wolves, all with blood-red eyes, all with gazes fixed firmly on Mel. Stiles and Mel stopped about six feet away from the Alpha group, and Stiles felt the muscles in his back coil that much tighter when he heard Peter close the doors behind them with a soft click. 

“Welcome, little one.” Talia Hale spoke softly, but her words reverberated in the space nonetheless. Stiles felt Mel shiver in response, though her own soft voice did not waver when she gave a little bow and met the Alpha’s eyes.

“Thank you for having me.”

“Talia, the human. We should kill it.” Stiles’ gaze followed the unfamiliar gravel in the new voice to an aged face near the end of the line. The red of the strange Alpha’s eyes was deeper, darker than Talia’s, like blood on obsidian. The nails that slid from his fingers were stained black from root to tip. Stiles watched as black fur peppered with silver to match the man’s hair sprouted around his jaw line.

“Calm down, father.” The wolf next to him laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder, then turned clear, ruby red eyes to Stiles. “I apologize for my father’s hastiness.” This Alpha’s voice was bright and clear, like bells or glass breaking, Stiles couldn’t decide which. His long hair was black like his father’s, pulled back in a ponytail at the base of his neck. Slim, rimless glasses perched lightly on his long, straight nose, and his perfectly-pressed three piece suit seemed a bit impractical for a werewolf, in Stiles’ opinion. “He does have a point, however.” The young alpha cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up his nose with one long finger. Villainous. “Your presence is no longer required, kindly move away from the child.” 

Stiles sized up the wolves in front of him. The betas weren’t as much of a concern as the Alphas, he hadn’t expected there to be more than six of them. Their chances of surviving a fight with nine Alphas was close to zero percent. Even so, he released Mel’s hand in favor of slipping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her more firmly against his side. He felt Mel’s fingers curl into the back of his coat as she pressed against him, trembling as a collective growl echoed around the room. The young wolf in the suit couldn’t help but let his composure slip, lip curling back to reveal lengthening fangs and eyes flashing dangerously. 

“You will hand the child over to us and leave this house immediately if you wish to continue breathing.” Not bells, definitely breaking glass; grating and painful on the ears. The tension in the room was thick and electric, the wolves around the perimeter growling in a low, echoing hum of noise. Stiles sized up the line of Alphas one more time before his gaze slipped back and snagged on Derek’s hazel eyes. The teen had pushed away from the wall and wasn’t even trying to hide the tension that vibrated through him. Stiles watched him shake his head minutely and tell him quite clearly with those eyes to just go, get out alive, then Stiles was shrugging his apologies with a sigh. 

“Yeah, sorry, but that’s not going to happen.”

There was an explosion of noise and movement in his peripheral vision, but Stiles ignored that for now in favor of pushing Mel behind him as Suit-Wolf rushed forward, one second standing beside his father, the next right in front of Stiles. A hundred different reactions flashed through Stiles’ mind, twitching the muscles in his arms and back, but he ignored every single instinct that told him to _fight_ and simply stood between the snarling Alpha and Allison’s daughter, and watched as long, sharp teeth flashed up, then closed firmly on his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapters are needed sometimes. More soon. Thanks again for reading and being patient with me!


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles’ ears were ringing. Suit Wolf had been more powerful than he’d thought. The hit his wards had taken to knock his attacker away had sent Stiles staggering back a few steps, the wind knocked out of him. Still, he was much better off than the offending Alpha, who was lying in a heap on the floor, whining breathlessly. The roar of the wolves which moments ago had been deafening was gone, replaced instead with a thunderous silence as two dozen shifted eyes stared at the lone human in the room. 

Stiles shook his head to clear it, his wards still electric and buzzing in his mind from the attack. He straightened his shoulders and met Talia’s stunned gaze. From his left a blur of black claws and furious red eyes attempted to flank him, but the father of the wounded wolf on the floor was brought up short when he found himself suddenly muzzle to muzzle with Stiles’ gun, drawn with inhuman speed and pointed with perfect precision without ever shifting his gaze from Talia’s face. 

"Pretty sure I already made it clear that I'mm more than willing to defend myself.” Stiles’ voice was impressively steady, even to himself. He knew that at the moment, his skin was patterned with runes and protection symbols, burned magically into his flesh and brought to light like tattoos due to their invocation. 

“Bullets cannot stop a werewolf.” a faceless voice sounded from his right, and Stiles tilted his head in acknowledgment. 

“True. Normal bullets can't stop a werewolf. But these aren't normal bullets. These are hollow point bullets filled with wolfs bane. They probably won't kill you, but I can’t imagine taking one between the eyes would be overly pleasant.” Stiles cocked his gun for drama’s sake, and Talia’s eyes flashed angrily. 

“You said you were not a hunter.” She growled, her voice low and laced with venom.

“I did, and I'm not. At least, not the kind you're thinking of.” Stiles answered, his voice just as cold. 

“Explain.”

“Eight years ago a group of hunters came through this town, and destroyed everything I loved. They are my targets, not you.”

“A hunter of hunters?” Talia hummed thoughtfully, watching him closely. A grumble ran through the gathering, disbelief evident in many of the betas. For a long time Stiles and Talia stared at each other as the room shifted and seethed uneasily around them. Stiles knew that everything going forward depended on this one moment. This one pivotal decision of Talia’s, to believe him, or not. Finally she let loose an almost exasperated sigh and her eyes slid past Stiles’ to something over his shoulder. “You didn’t think to check him for weapons before you let him in the house?”

“Didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to try and bring any.” Peter’s voice held a hint of laughter from wherever he was lurking behind Stiles. Normally having such a powerful wolf unaccounted for and in a blind spot would cause Stiles’ a great deal of stress, but for some reason Stiles was not threatened by Peter. For certain he was not to be trusted, but Stiles sensed that at least in Peter, he had one wolf who was not interested in seeing him die today. 

Well, one of two. 

Derek was hovering just behind his mother. Stiles could see him peripherally, though he still had not looked away from Talia. He could sense even across the distance between them the anxiety in the young wolf. He paced like a caged animal, watching everything. Stiles felt that strange warmth spread through him again, and the stinging of his damaged shields eased. 

“Alright, I think we’ve had enough excitement for now.” Talia finally relaxed, apparently judging Stiles truthful. “Calder, step away and collect your son.” Stiles felt the old Alpha at the end of his gun stiffen.

“You hold no power over me Talia. You cannot command me as you do your pups.” Calder growled.

“True, but you are in my home, Calder, and I forbid you to harm the human. While he is inside my borders he is under my protection.” The Hale Alpha had drawn herself to her full height, eyes blazing as she stared down the older wolf. Finally, with an angry huff, Calder stepped away. With one clawed hand he roughly grabbed his now silent heap of a son from the floor, and hauled him to the far side of the room. Stiles allowed himself to relax, returning his gun to the holster hidden under his jacket, and briefly imagining with amusement the reaction of the unconscious Alpha when he woke to discover he and his expensive suit had been dragged across the floor. Talia held up her hand and the grumbling growl in the room settled once again into silence. “Now, back to the issue at hand.” Talia looked pointedly behind Stiles again, and he turned, gathering Melissa under his arm and bringing her back into view. She clung to him tightly, but did not hesitate to face the older Alpha. 

“Do you understand why you are here, Child?” Melissa only nodded in response. “Have you experienced your first shift yet?”

“No.” Melissa’s voice, while soft, was steady. Stiles squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. Talia turned to face the other wolves gathered behind her, voice rising to fill the room.

“This child is unique. Never before have we been faced with a born wolf descended from a True Alpha and a hunter. This is not a decision I can make alone.” She turned, and addressed her fellow alphas directly. “We must decide if we will accept this child. If we will help her as she grows, and guide her in our ways.” Talia’s eyes slid back to Stiles as she finished, “Or, if we will not.”

###

“I don’t understand.” 

Allison was driving as Stiles sat in the back of her car and concentrated on his breathing. Melissa was leaning against him, little hands wrapped firmly around his arm even as she slept against his shoulder. 

“The Alphas want to see her power before they make their decision. Some of them think she could be a threat.”

“She’s a child!” Allison hissed angrily.

“That’s the point. They’ve never seen anything like her before. If she is too powerful already, before her first shift, they're scared what she might grow into.” Stiles adjusted his position gently, so as not to wake their subject of discussion. The ringing in his ears was back, and he was having a hard time engaging Allison in coversation and repairing his wards at the same time.

“So, what do they want to do? Some kind of test?”

“I guess, I didn’t really ask for details. Talia said she’d be in touch when we get closer to the full moon.”

“That’s only next week. How much closer does she want to get.” Allison’s voice was sour, but the heat was gone from her words. For now, at least, her child was safe. Mercifully, she said nothing else as they made their way back into town, giving Stiles time to focus his mind on rebuilding his defenses. He used the last few miles to the hotel to silently draw protection runes on the back of Melissa’s hand where it rested on his forearm. She breathed quietly against his shoulder, and Stiles watched as under his careful tracings, Melissa’s small fingers lengthened into wicked claws. 

He resolved to spend the rest of their time until the full moon bolstering every protection spell he knew. He had a feeling that in a week they were going to have to fight their way out of Beacon Hills. He tried not to think about what he would do if he found Derek standing between him and their freedom.


	5. Chapter 5

Rain pattered softly against the windows of Stiles’ hotel room, distant growling thunder giving voice to his unease. Allison had dropped him off hours ago, but Stiles had been too wound up to rest. He’d been pacing his room like a caged animal, listening to the summer storm rolling closer, mimicked by the turmoil inside.

Stiles didn’t think he’d ever get used to the pain of magical damage. It wasn’t like a broken arm, a blow to the head, or a knife to the gut. It was all three, and so much more. The buzzing, crackling, electric bite that skated over his skin and inside his mind was impossible for him to ignore, and no amount of alcohol could dull the ache. Suit Wolf had been stronger than he’d expected; the damage to his wards was extensive, and he’d need days to repair them.

A particularly painful sizzle raced up his spine, and Stiles’ breath left him in an annoyed hiss as he stopped pacing and shifted uncomfortably, riding it out. He tried to refocus on the sounds around him: the low, familiar hum of the decade-old mini fridge, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of water draining from the rooftop gutters, the unnecessarily loud voice of a woman down the hall _definitely_ faking it for her boyfriend’s benefit. His eyes scanned the small room wildly, searching for something to occupy his mind with, anything to use as a distraction.

A soft knock at his door sent his half-crazed eyes skittering to the clock beside the bed, glowing too brightly and burning into his retinas the after visiting hours of 1:49 am.

“Who?” was all he managed between clenched teeth as electric fire danced across his senses.

“It’s Derek.” came the concerned-sounding response. Of course.

“It’s open.” The door swung open slowly, as if Derek were taking great care not to make too much noise. 

“Are you alright?” Derek’s hazel eyes scanned Stiles from head to toe, and if the fresh heat that bloomed on Stiles’ skin underneath his roaming gaze was something other than magical injury, Stiles wouldn’t cop to it. He shrugged, stiffly.

“Shields at forty percent, Captain.” Stiles mumbled in response, watching a tattoo-like rune shift on the sweat-slick skin of his wrist, dragging across his flesh with the sensation of white hot razor blades.

“Star Trek jokes? Really?” Derek huffed softly as he kicked the door closed and moved toward Stiles. And really, this kid had _no_ business filling out a shirt like that. Or walking across the room in that way, so fluid and confident, even when his features were soft with concern. Or wearing jeans that fucking tight. Did they not carry clothes in Derek’s size anywhere in this town? Stiles turned away before Derek could reach him, shaking his head to dislodge some of the fog in his mind. He had been looking for a distraction, but not this.

“Who doesn’t like Star Trek?” He shot back, bending to open that old mini fridge and pluck the last tiny bottle from the shelf in the door. Fireball whiskey. Derek’s long, tapered fingers gently caught Stiles’ wrist before he could open it, turning his arm over and watching the runes dance on his skin. Stiles found himself studying Derek’s face, flipping through volume after volume of magical text in his mind for an explanation for why a sweet, slow heat bloomed from underneath Derek’s fingers.

“How much pain are you in?”

“Not much.” Stiles gently drew his wrist from Derek’s grip, scrubbing at his skin where he could no longer feel the electrical bite, only the soothing warmth of the werewolf.

“Don’t lie, I could smell it from two blocks away.”

“Fine, a lot.” Stiles admitted, sliding around the younger man and opening his tiny bottle of cinnamon whiskey and swallowing it down in one quick draw before half-sitting, half-collapsing onto the side of his squeaking bed. He wasn’t up for this right now. The teen was putting off heat like the sun, and Stiles couldn’t think straight under the weight of those intense hazel eyes.

“How can I help?”

Stiles shook his head, still trying to clear the fog. Derek Hale had been an awkward kid, who idolized Scott and followed Stiles around like a puppy. He’d had feet too big for his skinny body, teeth too big for his lopsided smile, and a heart too big for a kid named Hale. He’d been annoying, but cute, and that’s how Stiles had always thought of Derek.

This wasn’t his Derek. This Derek was a stranger. He’d grown into his big feet and his lopsided smile wasn’t cute anymore, but it was definitely… something. Derek slid smoothly- God, how did he _do_ that?- to his knees on the floor just in front of Stiles. Close, but not touching, eyes flashing with concern when Stiles’ body bowed to the side as a particularly painful shock skipped across his rib cage.

“Derek, just… stop. Stay away from me.”

“Why?” Derek didn’t move, stayed right where he was, eyes searching Stiles’ face. “I just want to make sure you’re alright. You scared me back there, I thought they were going to tear you apart.” That might have been better, Stiles couldn’t help but think. At least he wouldn’t be hurting like he was.

“Because you’re distracting me, I can’t think.” Stiles insisted, though even he could hear that he sounded less than convincing. “I need to focus.” he tried again, willing his voice authoritative. “You should go.” Derek sat still for a long moment, eyes still searching. Stiles met his gaze defiantly, refusing to allow Derek to see any weakness in him, but another sharp stab of lightning-hot pain flashed down his spine and he gasped, bending at the waist suddenly. Derek caught him by the arms, taking Stiles’ weight as the older man fell forward, and again that strange, soothing heat, golden and sweet as honey, spilled out from the point of contact.

“What _is_ that?” Stiles gasped, more to himself than to Derek, breathless as the sensation washed through him like a warm ocean tide. He could feel his wards mending without him even concentrating on them. Magical fibers knitting back together, settling in place around him stronger than they’d been even before the damage, humming softly against his skin.

“What? What’s wrong?” Derek’s voice was just edging into panic as he tried to wrestle Stiles back upright, but Stiles had gone boneless with relief, and now, though he still couldn’t rationalize exactly what was happening or why, he let himself slip from the bed and more fully against Derek. Every place where skin met skin, blessed reprieve. This was bad. Really bad. He needed to get away from Derek. He needed to shove the wolf away and go to bed, writhe in agony alone in the dark until nightmares took him, and do it all again in the morning, just like he always had. Derek Hale was a distraction Stiles didn’t have time for. He needed to focus on the packs, his wards, Allison and Mel, his plans to protect Scott’s family.

His hands slid higher, fingers diving underneath the bunched sleeves of Derek’s henley, seeking more skin. Derek blinked quickly and turned his face away, but Stiles didn’t miss the sharp intake of breath, or the gold that flashed in the wolf’s eyes. 

“What are you doing?” Derek asked, his voice quiet and low. 

“Skin, it helps.” Stiles answered absently, watching his own hands slide over Derek’s forearms, as if he were only observing and had no say in their actions. He was still, somewhere deep in a distant corner of his mind, trying to find an explanation for what was happening. What was it about Derek that was causing such a reaction? Stiles had been dabbling in magic and mysticism for years, and he was definitely no stranger to skin-on-skin contact, but none of the women he’d been with had caused any kind of response like this. Nor had the boy in Portland, the one with the dark, mahogany skin and pretty brown eyes who had almost, _almost_ , stolen his heart. 

Derek’s eyes were on his face again, concerned, confused… hungry. Shit. Before he could react Derek’s hands were gripping the hem of Stiles’ shirt and slipping quickly beneath, sliding over the older man’s back, spreading golden light through Stiles’ mind and magic. Stiles’ eyes drifted closed and his head fell forward, his forehead leaning against Derek’s shoulder as a relieved sigh shuddered out of him. Stiles didn’t even try to object when Derek shoved his shirt up, then pulled it over his head before wrapping those arms around him again and hauling him closer. A breath fanned across the skin of his neck like a warm summer breeze, and Stiles shivered. The image of knock-kneed, buck-toothed Derek Hale in Stiles’ mind melted away like smoke, replaced instead with this new Derek, strong and hot and…

“How old are you now?” Derek froze, kneeling on the floor of the dim hotel room, Stiles pressed against him, perfectly proportioned teeth-to-smile ratio and heated hazel eyes filling Stiles’ field of vision.

“Nineteen, why?”

Stiles answered him by surging forward, capturing the wolf’s mouth with his own, and letting loose a highly undignified moan when that slow spread of honey-gold warmth suddenly exploded inside of him, flooding his body with heat.

“Stiles-” Derek gasped against him.

“Shut up, you wanted to help, so help.” Stiles interrupted, so preoccupied with the way his magic was singing that he didn’t resist when those strong arms pulled him up, settling him firmly in the younger man’s lap. Derek’s mouth slid along Stiles’ jaw line, pressing a kiss just below his ear. Stiles became suddenly aware of how achingly hard he was, painfully trapped inside his too-tight jeans. He liked this Derek better, he decided. The wolf’s tongue dragged up the column of his throat, and Stiles’ body and magic responded with gusto. 

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice was growly in a way that Stiles found he really, really liked. He could get used to that voice, this body, this Derek. Derek’s hands sliding up his back sent a fresh blossom of heat through his body, and he arched against it like a cat, sliding forward across Derek’s lap, who growled again in response. Stiles’ hands scrambled across Derek’s body, mindlessly searching for exposed skin. When he finally got a hold of the hem of the younger man’s henley, he sighed happily at the contact. “Stiles.” Derek’s voice was very close to his ear, deliciously deep and slightly strained. 

“I said shut up.” Stiles said again, pressing his hands against Derek’s waist. 

“Stiles, stop.” Derek’s hands weren’t on Stiles anymore, they were pulling at his arms, forcing him back, and Stiles’ sluggish brain was having trouble processing this turn of events. 

“What?” 

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but this isn’t how I wanted this to go.” Derek ducked his head to the side to put his face into Stiles’ line of sight, pulling his gaze. “God, I’ve waited years to get my hands on you, that’s for sure,” (wait, what?) “but not like this.” 

“Uh…” Stiles answered intelligently, still consumed by the frenzy and the heat, mind listless. He struggled to focus, tried to work out the meaning behind Derek’s words and why there were no longer hands on him, but suddenly Stiles was so bone-deep tired that he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. He sagged, and Derek caught him easily. There was a feeling of weightlessness, then he felt the slightly scratchy sheets of his bed against his slowly cooling skin. His boots were tugged off, first left, then right, the sound of running water and the clink of a glass on the bedside table. From somewhere far away Stiles was asking Derek to stay. 

Please, don’t leave. Please, stay. Please. Don’t leave me. 

###

A few hours later Stiles’ eyes cracked open in the darkness, confused and disoriented, searching for what had awaken him. He felt unfamiliar sensations, heat, weight, a bare chest pressed firmly against his equally bare back. Skin on skin, the deep, even breaths of another body in his bed. He tried to turn his head to see who it was, but he couldn’t move. His limbs were too heavy, his mind bogged down with the haze of exhausted sleep. The weight he had felt shifted, and he realized it was an arm, slung casually around his waist, holding him gently in place, curled into the body of his bedmate. Stiles tried again to make sense of what was happening, but his mind refused to cooperate, and instead he slid slowly back to sleep, feeling oddly comfortable and safe, and for the first time in years, Stiles didn’t dream of fire.


End file.
